


munchies

by gdgdbaby



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan reaches out to take the joint in his hand, but Posey has this little grin on his face and doesn't let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	munchies

**Author's Note:**

> dylan and posey baking a cake while baked. that's it, that's the fic. warnings for casual drug use (and a smidge of dubcon associated with that). written for advent. originally posted at [livejournal](http://gdgdbaby.livejournal.com/99732.html).

It's their first day off in weeks and of course Posey's taken this opportunity to get high as a kite. "Sugarpie, honeybunch," he's singing at the sink, off-key and overloud, in nothing but a ratty pair of boxers and a yellow apron that screams _KISS THE CHEF_ in hot pink letters.

Dylan's a little alarmed to realize that he recognizes it, although he can't remember where exactly it's from.

"You know I love you! Can't help myself—"

It takes all the (admittedly limited) self-control that Dylan can muster to not pull his phone out and start recording immediately. "How much have you had?" he asks instead, eyeing the neat row of hand-rolled joints lying on the counter next to an open sack of flour.

"Too much," Posey replies, and lights the next one up anyway, grinning crookedly. "I got it from Holland."

"We get everything from Holland. She's the one true enabler of underage vice everywhere."

"Not underage anymore," Posey points out. He blows smoke in Dylan's face. "You want?"

Dylan reaches out to take the joint in his hand, but Posey has this little grin on his face and doesn't let him. He takes a deep drag and holds it, leans over the counter and quirks an eyebrow.

Dylan leans forward the rest of the way and lets Posey breathe out into his mouth, close enough that he can feel warmth radiating off Posey's skin. He inhales and nearly chokes on the smoke. It's almost sickeningly sweet, cloying in a way that coats his windpipe all the way down as he breathes in.

"Jesus," Dylan says thickly. Posey laughs at his grimace and goes back to the batter in his bowl with a whisk, beating at a frenetic pace. "What are you making?"

"Cake, obviously," he says, because of course Dylan should have known. "A little help would be nice."

Which is how they end up getting a dense layer of white over everything in the kitchen, because baking a cake devolves into throwing fistfuls of the ultra-fine low-protein cake flour at each other instead of—well, actually _baking the cake_. Posey shoves half a bag of sugar down Dylan's pants and cackles as he dodges the handful of Cool Whip Dylan tosses at his head. It lands with a splat next to the sink.

"I'd never want to be a werewolf if it meant I'd never be able to get drunk or high again," Posey remarks later, stirring baking soda into the batter.

"So weed doesn't work, but what about weird werewolf herbs?" Dylan suggests. "Like, smoking wolfsbane?"

Posey rewards him an unimpressed look. "I'm pretty sure that would kill them. Haven't you been paying attention all season?"

Dylan laughs scratchily around the wet end of the joint in his mouth. "It was just an example."

They burn through three more sticky joints before they finally settle down enough to actually pour whatever's left of the batter into pans and shove them in the oven. "Fuck," Posey says. "We forgot to preheat."

"Whatever," Dylan says, licking the batter off the big wooden spoon in his hands. "Just turn the knob to 350."

"How long?"

"What did it say on the box?"

"I can't remember."

Dylan sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and tries to think. Posey crosses his arms and waits. "Fifty minutes? I don't know, man, this isn't fucking Iron Chef. We can just wing it."

They end up sprawled on the floor of the kitchen, eyes glued on the translucent oven door. Posey only gets up to grab stale Cheetos from the pantry, which they pass back and forth until Dylan's fingers, orange and cheesy, hit the bottom of the bag.

 

 

Crystal walks in ten minutes after the timer dings and they fish the pans out of the oven. He's surprised she doesn't get a contact high just breathing the air in their apartment, but then it's only been an hour and he's already coming down, so it probably wasn't particularly potent in the first place.

Posey's dripping the final flourishes of Cool Whip on the fourth layer, apron hanging askew. "What the hell happened here?" she asks, eyeing the mess.

"We made cake," Posey announces, grabbing the plate and holding the lopsided thing up with triumph. "Ow, fuck, that's hot." Crystal looks like she's torn between congratulations and vituperation. "Want some?"

She accepts the large piece Dylan cuts her and takes a cautious bite. "Not bad," she says, a contemplative look on her face as she chews.

It isn't until she's almost done with her second slice, pupils blown wide and a giddy smile on her face, that Dylan realizes—"Tyler, you didn't use any weed butter in the batter, did you?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," Posey says, gently taking the plastic knife out of Crystal's hands when she tries to cut herself a third slice. "If you're hungry, babe, we have chips."

"I think we've created a monster," Dylan notes.

Posey tiptoes through the kitchen and fishes the last couple of joints from the debris. He's got that grin on his face again, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Shall we?"

Dylan rescues the lighter from beneath an empty bag of flour and flicks it on.


End file.
